


Down Time

by clownfrogg



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Sexual Frustration, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-14 23:50:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clownfrogg/pseuds/clownfrogg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "Castiel gets curious in the hotel room while on some down time from a hunt and find the bag of stuff that Dean hide from everyone under the bed. Finding pictures and keepsakes, his stash of his favorite magazine, and I'll let you have fun with what else he finds and what not."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down Time

**Author's Note:**

> This is cross-posted from my tumblr. Enjoy!

It’s late and Dean is sleeping in a lumpy queen sized bed in a crusty Motel 6 right off the I-40 in Kingman, Arizona. The A/C unit in the room is busted so it only blows out warm, recycled air. Dean has wedged open the horizontal sliding window with a single boot to allow the fresh, cool desert breeze inside, but it can’t cut through the thick, stifling heat of this poorly insulated building.

So, Dean sleeps wearing only a pair of black cotton boxer briefs on top of the ugly orange comforter and sweats clean through to the mattress. His skin is flushed and slick. Beads of moisture collect on his upper lip, but he doesn’t bat it away. No, Dean Winchester is well practiced when it comes to snagging bits of shuteye if the opportunity presents itself. He can sleep through the worst western heat if it means closing his eyes for a few hours, and he knows it’s safe to do so; he knows he’s safe because he’s got one hell of a warrior keeping an eye on things outside. And Cas is standing right where he left him with very clear instructions: “Four hours minimum, don’t watch me sleep - it’s creepy - and holler if you see anything unnatural moving around out there.”

Cas places impeccable wards all over the doors, windows and roof, and he diligently keeps watch until his mind grows restless. He glances at the window, watches the curtains billowing in the soft breeze, and knows that Dean is asleep barely ten feet away. He shouldn’t go inside and it would be a breach of privacy, according to Dean, if he appeared to him in a dream just to find relief for this new found boredom.

He goes inside anyway.

Cas is quiet; it’s one of his many assets as a soldier. He’s good at sneaking around, he has a knack for being unassuming, and he’s excellent at making himself invisible. These are the makings of a spy, but Cas fancies himself a fighter and absently flexes his long, dexterous fingers. He’s even developed a fists first, questions later mentality, courtesy of his time spent with Dean; though it’s exactly this sort of drive and ferocity that spurred him through the bowels of hell to raise his friend from eternal damnation.

He casts a furtive glance at the warm body on the bed and feels his vessel come alive. Pulse spikes, stomach feels like it’s rotating and twisting, and his back feels cold and moving - like there’s a cool breath of air slithering down his spine. He catches his reflection in the television screen, but he already knows he’s wrecked; he’s already walked this beaten path.

Cas stands at the foot of the bed, intensely tracing over the lines of Dean’s body with his eyes. Watches the way his chest rises and falls, the way his lashes flutter while he reaches REM state, the angular jut of his hips against the smooth curve of his ass. His eyes dart over the bow of Dean’s mouth and he licks his own chapped lips self-consciously.

This is so wrong.

This is beyond a breach of trust. If Cas continues to stand here like this, perhaps he might do something unforgivable. He quickly turns his face away, fists clenched tightly at his sides, partially covered by the long hem of his overcoat sleeves. Look away. Look at something else. Anything else.

His eyes fall on the strap of Dean’s duffel bag poking out from underneath the bed.

Cas crouches and tugs on the leather, sliding the bag quietly across the carpet. It’s already half open, so he dips his hand inside, lets the zipper brush against his wrist, and feels over the soft cotton of Dean’s t-shirts and the rough but worn material of his jeans. Cas doesn’t require oxygen to stay alive, but he sucks in a breath anyway and holds it. Imagines, for a moment, how warm the fabric would be if it was on Dean, clinging to his skin. What it would sound like if Cas ripped these pieces from his writhing, pliant body. He doesn’t need to snuff inside to catch the scent of Irish Spring and Old Spice and musk on Dean’s dirty clothes. His eyes go half-lidded, pupils blown wide, and he exhales sharply, trying to banish the delicious scent from his very being.

He shoves the bag away quickly, eyes fixed on the floor, his vessel’s heart beating a mile a minute. What is wrong with him? Dean is his friend. Dean trusts him. He shouldn’t be touching these things without permission; he shouldn’t be picturing his friend like this. He shouldn’t want to pin Dean’s naked body beneath him and — and what? Hold his legs open; push inside; feel the warmth tightly envelop him; drive into him over and over and over again until Dean’s crying out his name like a prayer; fill Dean with his seed and be one with him in their union; press his lips to Dean’s in a silent oath, a promise of his devotion; just like the hand print seared into Dean’s shoulder, showing everyone just how special and sacred and extraordinary their bond truly is.

He adores Dean.

Cas’s eyes are screwed shut and his teeth actually hurt from clenching his jaw so tightly.

He’s so ashamed.

These feelings would devastate Dean. He’s supposed to be an angel of the lord and here he is, crouching on the floor of his best friend’s bedroom with his nose in a pile of laundry, allowing himself to be corrupted by the stirring in his groin. He looks down at the humiliating bulge in his pants and wonders how to make it go away. Wishes he didn’t have to feel like this; wishes he didn’t feel at all because it hurts so much.

He unclenches his fists and breathes in through his nose. It’s dry and carries with it the scent of all that he can never have.

Not now. Not like this.

He tucks the bag carefully back under the bed and makes himself swear, just like the last time, not to do it again.

But he’s weak.

So weak.

He pines.

Lusts.

Wants.

Perhaps someday, he’ll have. Until then, he’ll try to stop feeling so human.


End file.
